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Brooklyn snorts, but before I can make any more jokes at the waiter’s expense, he’s back with two plates.
Hey, one benefit of there not being any choices is that the one item they do have comes out pretty fast. And it smells good.
“Can I have a fork?” Brooklyn points at the French fries on her plate.
“We don’t have forks,” the waiter states.
“Hmm,” Brooklyn says. “Do you have a spork or a spoon?”
“We don’t have spoons,” the waiter deadpans. “And no sporks.”
Brooklyn sighs. “All right, I guess.”
When the waiter leaves, she asks, “Are we still tipping that guy?”
“Hold that thought,” I say. “There are better questions that have to be answered first.”
She rolls her eyes. “Let me guess: Who eats fries with a fork?”
“Oh, that one will have to wait its turn,” I say with a grin. “I’m much more curious as to what you would have done with a spoon.”
Her shoulders bob. “I don’t like grease on my fingers. Sue me.”
“But a spoon?—”
“Can work in a pinch,” she says. “If you’re willing to mush the fries, that is.”
“Yuck. Fine. What about the burger?”
She straightens her spine. “What about it?”
“Do you hold the burger in your hands, or eat it with a fork, like a pervert? And how would you eat it with a spoon?”
With a small eyeroll, she grabs the burger and takes a big bite.
“Very mature,” I say and follow her lead.
Wow. It’s a good, juicy burger.
She must like it too because she arches an eyebrow at me before she grabs a handful of fries and stuffs them in after the burger, fingers dripping with grease. “Is this what you wanted?” she demands.
“Umm. Is it weird that it’s actually hot?”
“Very,” she says.
“Oh, well. It is.” And I’m not lying one bit.
Grinning, she devours her food and excuses herself to go wash the grease off her hands.
I visit the men’s room as well, figuring that since she has a thing against grease, I’d better rid myself of mine so as not to gross her out when I touch her. Wait, what am I saying? You don’t want greasy hands in general.
When I get back to the table, Brooklyn is there, and so is the check.
I sigh. She’s pitched in half the money.
“I know we’re not putting labels on things,” I say. “But we did say this was a date—and when I take someone out, I insist on paying.”
Her expression turns mutinous. “And when is it going to be my turn to take you out?”
